


(1) There's a method to her madness

by Papillonae



Series: The Demigoddess Poems [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Bedrooms, F/F, Free Verse, Love, Nerd Culture, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 14:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15003161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papillonae/pseuds/Papillonae
Summary: Poetry, free verse. Of the description of where one's beloved dwells.





	(1) There's a method to her madness

She lives in a circus tent,

blankets tacked on the ceiling,

all red and gold and black and white stripes,

Captain Maggot with her flame sticks

staring darkly down from her poster

at the rainbow boa

looping through the bedpost

of her plum-dressed bed.

 

“She scares the other posters off the walls,”

she says as she retapes a poster:

Mr. Kirkland and Honda-san

in pirate regalia and traditional Japanese _jittoku haori_ ;

she readjusts a magical girl lineup, JRPG heroes

running through grassy fields.

 

Tiny Claudia leaps up into her bed – all curt feline chirps

kneading the mattress, loafing herself,

embedding black fur in the sheets between us.

Living up to her namesake

she lays close to me –

Louis in Lestat’s coffin.

 

At the foot of her nightly throne

fabrics of all colors and textures

burst from the old trunk,

waterfalls

of thick white fleece for a frock coat,

leaf textured upholstery, and gold brocade

cascading down in rivulets.

 

Her nightstands, desks, and bookshelves

linger

with the faint syrupy scent

of cold English breakfast tea, abandoned in mugs

when the inspiration to write or craft knells:

the smells of Wonderland

in striped and sculpted tea pots

mingling

with light vanilla spice -

Fantasia incense

in a ribbon of smoke

snaking up to glow-in-the-dark stars

mapped in the Virgo constellation,

a testament to who she is.

 

Human-born goddess of wisdom,

wrestling with Arachne - her sewing machine.

Owl plushes and gargoyles standing at attention

passing wide-eyed judgment among

small coins and tokens and bibbits.

Only the Tabris figma smiles and extends his friendly hand.

They sit atop the shelf of her rolltop desk,

the residence of a laptop owned by Nobody

and an antique typewriter on which she types

towering manuscripts.

 

She weaves fantasy tales, fairy tales;

stories for women like her

who fall in love with women like me

who share Sculpey paopu fruits and wayfinders

under the glow of artificial stars,

where the wind rushes past the window

between her encroaching library –

the words of Holly Black

and Nina Kiriki Hoffman

(who writes happiness better

than anyone else she’s ever read,)

lulling us to sleep.


End file.
